Cynthia checked a yawn.

'Very well, dear,' she said. 'I caught the 10.20 to Eastnor, which
isn't a bad train, if you ever want to go down there. I arrived at
a quarter past twelve, and went straight up to the house--you've
never seen the house, of course? It's quite charming--and told the
butler that I wanted to see Mr Ford on business. I had taken the
precaution to find out that he was not there. He is at Droitwich.'

'Rheumatism,' murmured Mrs Ford. 'He has it sometimes.'

'The man told me he was away, and then he seemed to think that I
ought to go. I stuck like a limpet. I sent him to fetch Ogden's
tutor. His name is Broster--Reggie Broster. He is a very nice
young man. Big, broad shoulders, and such a kind face.'

'Yes, dear, yes?'

'I told him I was doing a series of drawings for a magazine of the
interiors of well-known country houses.'

'He believed you?'

'He believed everything. He's that kind of man. He believed me
when I told him that my editor particularly wanted me to sketch
the staircase. They had told me about the staircase at the inn. I
forget what it is exactly, but it's something rather special in
staircases.'